The New Murrey and Blue blog

This ghost story was inspired after reading this post by my good friend sparkypus. And the Battle of Barnet just happened to take place at an earlier Easter. Oh, and there’s a nod toward Dickens, but the facts don’t cooperate with Christmas!

The eve of the Battle of Barnet, Holy Saturday, 13 April, 1471

It was the eve of Easter Sunday, close to midnight and the joy of the Easter Vigil. As Richard Neville, 16th Earl of Warwick, drew his horse to a halt in the dense, swirling fog, he felt as cold as if he were in a landscape of snow and ice wearing only the hated beard that now graced his chin. The cold was imagination, conjured by his many suppressed fears, because in spite of the dense fog the spring night was mild. Only fools were unafraid in the hours before battle.

There was such a blanket of heavy fog over the countryside that he couldn’t see the Yorkists of King Edward IV at all, and even his own red-jacketed Lancastrian encampment was a vague blur of campfires and men moving close by. Both sides were quiet, for fear of giving away their exact position. Neither knew how far away the other was camped.

The fog carried nearby sounds, snatches of conversation as his men sat around their campfires. Lent had ended two days ago, and they were at last able to eat and drink as they pleased. Now they awaited the Easter Vigil. Then the moment was shattered as a huge blue flash signalled the large artillery of both armies had fired round-shot at each other in the hope of inflicting great damage. They’d been doing this intermittently for some hours, so far without hitting anything. Pinpointing artillery in these conditions was impossible because the fog hid the moment of detonation. There were just the thunderous explosions and then whine of the shot skimming overhead. Both sides were overshooting the mark.

Even as he thought this, Warwick paused at the inconsistency. This time he had seen the flash. And it was a vivid blue! Artillery fire was never blue. Then he heard a rumble of thunder. He’d seen lightning, but never before had it been quite that brilliant blue. Nothing seemed right for thunder, and yet what else could it be? He waited for the first raindrops, but none came.

Then he had the strong feeling of being close to a large river. For a second or so he heard the distinct lap of tidal water against a jetty, and the horns and shouts of nearby vessels finding their way tentatively through the swirling gloom. But there wasn’t a river up here on the hill, not even a substantial stream. It was unsettling, as if he’d brushed with the supernatural. At this preposterous thought he pulled himself up sharply. No flights of fancy at a time like this! He was tired and in need of sleep, but tonight he did not dare to sleep. At forty-two he was no longer quite as agile and lithe as he’d been at Edward’s age but could still teach the arrogant young fool a long-over lesson!

Keeping an eye out for Yorkist scouts, he dismounted and stood there in his armour, a lonely grey figure obscured by the clammy fog. He wished he was with his wife Nan, lying close and cherished, instead he was here, waiting for a battle that might well put an end to him forever.

He was alone, without even his brother John, who was here with his forces. Being on his own for this final survey was always better. The opposing armies had assembled on the edges of Kicks End Common, and the town of Barnet was half a mile away downhill in the Thames Valley. All was ready. But was there any battle manoeuvre he’d failed to anticipate? Fog led to often fatal mistakes.

Another blue flash lit the heavens above the fog and was followed almost immediately by a roll of thunder, but then everything became so utterly silent that his heart lurched when it was broken by the rattle of numerous oars and the brief command of a barge captain to come alongside. It sounded like his own bargemaster, and was so real that Warwick recoiled, half-expecting to see the barge’s gilded prow glide alongside him. He also expected to have stepped back against his horse…but it wasn’t there anymore! What the devil—?

Where was his horse? He’d been holding the reins, damn it! Now his pulse quickened unpleasantly. What was happening? Was it witchcraft? Had he been overlooked? Had the Yorkists turned black magic upon him? Was this no ordinary fog but an evil miasma? He closed his eyes. Now wasn’t the time to give in to wild imaginings, he needed to be at his sharpest. Edward Plantagenet was many things, not many of them likeable, but was more likely to be the victim of witchcraft than resort to it himself. How else could he have fallen prey to his scheming mare of a wife? Elizabeth Woodville was a dark sorceress, of that Warwick had been certain from the outset. She was definitely capable of evil and ill-wishing.

Dear God above, Warwick despised Elizabeth and her voracious crew of kin whom Edward had deliberately inserted into the old aristocracy. Wherever one went, one tripped over a Woodville. It was a ploy to control the magnates, and was deeply resented, not least by Warwick. The earl’s eyes were like flint. Edward had made a great fool of him by letting him go to France to negotiate a French marriage. And while the negotiations were actually in progress, Edward married Elizabeth Woodville!

The earl’s face was savage with loathing. The Woodvilles were nothing. Nothing! He’d found it all intolerable and had taken arms against Edward. If he won tomorrow he’d slice through all those damned Woodvilles like a hot knife through butter! Elizabeth herself would meet with a mysterious demise, and if Edward survived the battle he’d pay dearly for his insults and stupidity.

Silence had returned and with a great effort he hauled his wits together again and forced himself to consider the situation. His forces had arrived first and he’d taken the superior position, where the main London road completed its climb out of the wide Thames Valley. Now his forces were arrayed east-west, in the lee of an ancient hedge long the northern edge of the broad, fairly level green expanse of Kicks End Common. The Yorkists had been forced into a lower position somewhere along the common’s southern edge.

Warwick had learned never to take 29-year-old Edward Plantagenet for granted, but right now he felt sure that was exactly what he could do. Edward would attack at the earliest glimmer of dawn, 4 o’clock or thereabouts. How was it possible to be so certain? Because it was what he, Warwick, would do, and Edward had learned much from his former close friend and supporter. Well, come first light, Edward Plantagenet would find his old comrade’s Lancastrian troops ready and waiting.

The Earl didn’t like Edward very much. He never had, but they’d become allies and, eventually, comrades of a sort. Or so Warwick thought. He’d soon found that Edward Plantagenet considered only himself and kept faith with no one. Except, perhaps his youngest brother, Richard of Gloucester. But the earl doubted if even thoughts of Richard would give Edward pause for genuine second thought.

Thinking of Edward’s failings were banished abruptly when the eerily incongruous noises intruded again He was sure he could hear someone alighting from the invisible barge and walking along a jetty. The someone shoved past him roughly, agitating the fog. Warwick had the briefest of glimpses. A vaguely familiar young man in fashionable clothes who continued into the eddying vapour without even an apologetic nod.

Warwick was angry. “Hey! You!” he cried, but there was no response and yet again the silent fog settled over everything so completely that the young man might have been imaginary.

The earl’s lips twisted bitterly. To Hades with wild fantasy, he had to keep a clear head. This battle wasn’t part of his original plan. He’d wanted to march south from Coventry to occupy London during the distraction of Eastertide, and to secure the weak, ineffectual Lancastrian king Henry VI, but Edward had beaten him to it. Henry was even now in the Yorkist camp, a smiling, bumbling prisoner who probably thought himself safe in Edward’s hands. Fool! Well, the coming battle would decide once and for all which noble house ruled, Lancaster or York. That Edward was in command of both London and Henry was galling, and a great setback for Richard Neville!

Now the earl gazed south through the murk, reflecting that Edward’s one weak point was his troublesome middle brother. George, Duke of Clarence was a jealous man, angry to be the second of three, not the first. He’d changed sides between York and Lancaster, and now back to York. The earl wasn’t surprised that George changed allegiance, for untrustworthiness had always been there in his character, but would Edward dare to place full faith in a brother who deserted causes with such ease? Least of all one who was married to Richard Neville’s elder daughter, Isabel.

The youngest York brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, could be trusted to the ends of the earth, of that Warwick was sure. He knew Richard and George very well indeed, having brought them up in his household at Middleham and his other castles in the north. He’d been their mentor. And now they were all three united against him.

He rubbed the beard that aggravated him so, but in a rash moment he’d sworn not to shave until his cause was vindicated, so here he was with a chin like a hedgepig. Soon, though….soon he’d have a clean chin again!

But just how dangerous a force did Edward have at his disposal? There were reports of a large company of Flemish mercenaries with shoulder-firing arquebuses, and others with handguns. How effective were they going to be? Warwick was relying on foot soldiers and the protection of the hedge for the downhill rake of his carefully placed heavy artillery. Did Edward have cavalry? Might he use it to skirt around to the east and west, out of range of the south-facing artillery? The earl pondered the thought. He’d ordered the placement of caltrops to deter any possible cavalry, but he had a nagging, unsettling feeling that he’d overlooked something.

A single, echoing stroke of a large bell broke the night. Midnight. A priest intoned close by, and the faint glimmer of the Paschal candle appeared. Warwick was dismayed. It was later than he thought and he’d be late for the Church’s most sacred rite of the calendar! He had to be there prominently, for all his men to see! But even in the midst of his dismay he realised with a shock that—impossibly—the bell had been Great Tom of Westminster. And it didn’t sound like the stroke of joy for Christ having risen but was more a knell. As of death itself.

He listened superstitiously, his pulse gathering pace again, but the bell didn’t sound again. He couldn’t have heard Great Tom. Westminster was at least ten miles away and that single profound stroke, which still reverberated, seemed to be remarkably close to hand. He was sure it wasn’t one of the local parish churches his scouts had identified.

As he glanced around with a thousand and one fearful thoughts spinning through his mind, he became aware of the Paschal candle extinguishing. The priest’s voice faded and the hazy campfires blurred into anonymity in the thick, swirling vapour.

It was then that he heard heavy double-doors closing behind him, and he whirled about. Doors? In an overnight army encampment on an open common? Next came the clump of a man’s boots on a tiled floor. For pity’s sake, what was he hearing?

He almost cried out as the swaying flicker of a hand-held candlestick shone brightly and he realised he was holding it. The steps were his own and he’d just come ashore from his barge on the Thames! Now he was in a great building he recognised only too well. It was the Palace of Westminster. And he was no longer in his armour but wore his favourite clothes, a rich dull apricot velvet coat trimmed with black fur, over a golden cotehardie, gleaming black boots and a dark scarf-hat that somehow bestowed the stern dignity he’d so often found useful.

Outside there was another flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a thunderclap that shook the building. But still there was no rain, and the fog was as still and dense as ever. Shaken and disorientated, he looked around. Tendrils of the fog had accompanied him inside, but then faded. He struggled not to give in to panic, telling himself it was impossible to be in his Hertfordshire camp and then the heart of Westminster in one beat of his galloping heart. This was nothing more than the wildest of imagination!

He was spellbound. There was no other explanation. Time had clearly passed but he’d forgotten those lost hours. Had the battle taken place? If he was here in the palace then surely he must have been victorious!

Holding the candlestick higher, he inspected the roomhis surroundings. It He was in an entrance hall, but there was no one around. An empty access to a palace? His glance fell on the proliferation of Yorkist emblems and he vowed that they wouldn’t be there for long once King Henry had been fully restored. He paused. If he was here, then had Edward been defeated in the battle, leaving Henry VI the undisputed King of England? By all the saints, Warwick wished he could remember! One thing was certain, if perfidious Edward had been crushed, all memory of him would soon be wiped from this place.

The earl looked from a latticed casement toward the Thames stairs. The fog was still as thick as ever, and he could barely make out the torches by the river. Then, as he turned again a large ginger tomcat saw him. It arched its back, growled and spat venomously, then fled as if pursued by the hounds of Hell.

“Miserable malkin,” Warwick muttered. He liked cats but this one had clearly taken great exception to him. Then he paused to wonder what to do now. If His Grace King Henry VI was indeed wearing the crown again, it was time to ensure he showed suitable gratitude to the man who’d secured the rule of the House of Lancaster.

Recognising an archway to a passage to the privy apartments, he walked that way. A clerk in an anteroom looked up as he passed but didn’t seem to recognise him. Then came the patter of canine paws, and Warwick turned to see his favourite sighthound, Tobias. The dove-grey hound loped toward him joyfully, tail wagging, and Warwick crouched to fuss his dear friend. He’d always loved Tobias above all his other dogs and hounds.

Then the pair of them continued toward the royal apartments. Two menservants came toward them, keeping their eyes lowered. In respect, Warwick thought, but then a maidservant approached carrying a carved wooden spice box. She looked straight at him, gasped, dropped the box and fled. It was a costly error because as the box struck the floor it burst open and numerous little bundles of cinnamon bark fell to the floor, many of them shattering on the unforgiving stone.

He was taken aback by the manner of the girl’s mishap, for which she’d undoubtedly be in considerable trouble. “What’s the matter with her, Tobias? Foolish wench.” Such a terrified reaction was what he’d want in an enemy on the field, not a pretty young woman. “Clearly you’ve lost your Neville allure, my lad,” he mused as he and Tobias continued. The sighthound made a noise as if agreeing, for which disloyalty he was reprimanded.

The absence of any Easter celebration was striking. Warwick frowned. The sorrows of Good Friday lingered on into Holy Saturday, the day Our Lord rested in his tomb, but it was now Easter Sunday and the Vigil was over. Christ had risen, yet everyone here seemed to be unaccountably downcast and nervous. There was no joy here at Westminster, and very little light. There should be numerous candles, lamps and torches to gladden the heart.

Reaching an outer hall of the royal apartments he was puzzled to see groups of courtiers standing around, deep in conversation. Something had happened, and it preoccupied them to the exclusion of even noticing the Earl of Warwick in their midst! Something held him back from drawing attention to himself and keeping his hand on Tobias’s collar he made his way slowly through the shadows around the side of the hall toward the door to the inner chambers. Thunder continued to rumble outside, with only one distant blue flash, as he and Tobias went further into the privy chambers.

The flicker of firelight attracted Warwick to one room. It was a parlour or anteroom, he couldn’t decide which because it was both sumptuous and cosy. A good coal fire glowed in the hearth, there was ample costly furniture and everything was richly decorated. Among the exquisite hangings he recognised jewel-coloured tapestries with glinting gold thread stitchery. They belonged to King Henry and were much coveted. The windows, which must overlook the Thames, he thought, were concealed behind heavy velvet and brocade curtains that seemed to absorb all outside sound, except for the grumbling thunder. For a moment he thought the nearest curtain twitched. Was there a draught? But the moment passed.

He placed his candlestick on a table beside a silver dish of last autumn’s apples, all arranged in a pyramid and so perfectly cared for they might have just been plucked from the bough. The fire warmed the room pleasingly and he was about to sit down to consider his puzzling position when something about the bowl of apples irritated him. Whoever had arranged the pyramid had been less than precise with the final fruit on top. He was about to adjust the offending apple when he decided to sample it. But he took a bite of….nothing. He looked at the apple. It was still intact. There was nothing in his mouth, nor could he taste anything.

Confounded, he replaced the apple on top of the pyramid. As he did he heard a sound in the doorway and glanced up to see a page of about fourteen standing there, staring at the apple as if at a phantom.

Warwick straightened, intending to speak, but the boy had already turned tail and was running—nay, sprinting!—back toward the hall. The earl stared at the doorway. What was wrong with them all? First the cat, then the maidservant and now a page.

Brisk footsteps were approaching from the other direction, and this time he detected the costly rustle of a woman’s silken gown. There was purpose and authority in her tread. Who was it? Henry’s queen, Margaret of Anjou? Then his brows drew together, for Margaret and the son she’d supposedly borne to silly Henry were still in France. He didn’t want to see her, for she was second only to Elizabeth Woodville on his list of loathed women.

Margaret had once kept him kneeling before her for fifteen minutes, and it was an insult he’d never forgive or forget. No one, no one did that to Richard Neville! His only consolation was that his younger daughter Anne was now wed to Edward, Prince of Wales, the son Margaret claimed was by Henry VI. If all went well, Anne would one day be Queen of England, and with luck Richard Neville would be grandfather to a line of kings. Yes, that was consolation. He supposed.

Tobias growled, and when the woman appeared in the doorway Warwick was astounded, for it was none other than the sorceress Elizabeth Woodville herself. If it was Henry on the throne now, how could she be here? Yet again his mouth ran dry, and his grip tightened on Tobias’s collar. That so many contrary things were besetting him only strengthened his suspicion of witchcraft. And here was the witch queen herself!

Elizabeth’s was a brittle, cold blonde beauty, the sort that seemed it might shatter at any moment. She wore azure blue velvet over golden taffeta, and a midnight-blue silk hood was turned back over her fair hair. It was easy to see why she’d turned Edward’s head, but seeing her hardness now, Warwick couldn’t help wondering if the royal Yorkist gull still viewed her in the same besotted light. Edward usually liked his women honest, warm and earthy. His troublesome consort was none of these things, and never had been.

Her glance flickered over Warwick for a moment. “Is it done?”

Warwick was confounded. What did she mean?

“Yes, it’s done.” A man had emerged from behind the nearest window draperies and stepped right in front of Warwick to address the queen. It was her younger brother, Richard Woodville. At least, he looked like Richard Woodville, although appearing rather older than his eighteen years. Jesu, the fellow looked about thirty!

Too much plotting and devious tinkering in the furtherance of the Woodvilles had aged the little runt, the earl decided sourly, realising that Woodville was the oaf who’d almost collided with him at Kicks End Common! What wa going on? Something made Warwick draw back instinctively, beyond the light of both fire and candle. He didn’t really know why he did it, because they must know he was here! How could they not?

“You are sure it’s all in order?” Elizabeth pressed.

“Yes,” her brother replied.

“And you’re certain Gloucester is still in the north?”

“Middleham. Yes.”

Warwick’s lips twitched. But he supposed that if anyone had to have his most loved castle, Richard of Gloucester was better than most. Then he frowned. How could Richard be at Middleham when he was with Edward’s army on Kicks End Common? And why were these two so concerned about his whereabouts? Surely George of Clarence, as the next senior York brother, would be of more consequence?

Elizabeth smiled. “Good. Well over two hundred miles between Westminster and him.”

Warwick’s brows drew together. Both Richard and George were with Edward, which was certainly not over two hundred miles away. They’d been seen by his, Warwick’s, scouts. Why on God’s own earth would Edward’s hussy and her brother not mention George and speak of Richard of Gloucester being in the north?

“We’ll dispose of Gloucester in due course,” Richard Woodville replied.

“Yes. He’s far too loyal, and too clever.” Reassured, Elizabeth exhaled slowly. “Then you promise that tonight our ultimate aim will be achieved?”

“Yes.” Richard Woodville was pricked to be doubted, but then he decided on a cautious addendum. “That is if all goes according to plan.”

“Has a courier been sent to Ludlow?”

Now Warwick wondered what was so important at Ludlow.

Elizabeth’s brother went to the door and looked outside in both directions, before closing it firmly. “Stop worrying so. All has been done according to our agreement. He’ll have breathed his last come the morning. I have no conscience. He’s always neglected me, and I have no idea why. Well, I’m not neglecting him.”

Warwick was startled. They were talking of murder? Of whom? Gloucester? He was shocked that they would discuss something so vital and sensitive in front of him. Although….did they actually realise he was still in the room? They must do, surely. Elizabeth had looked directly at him when she entered. But then….he recalled that it was to her brother that she actually spoke. The earl realised—incredulously—that somehow neither of them had seen him. And now they were making him the unwitting party to something very weighty and crucial indeed.

Whose death were they intent upon? Maybe not Gloucester’s, but Henry’s perhaps? Oh, surely not. Would the scheming witch go as far as to contemplate regicide? The same went for any designs upon eliminating Edward. There were four children of her royal marriage, three girls and a baby boy. There was no security in just one boy. But she was fortunate to have even that, as Warwick knew that only too well, having two girls and no boy at all.

Elizabeth smiled sleekly at her brother. “We’ll have the realm in our hands,” she said, cupping a hand expressively. “With my boy on the throne, there’ll be no one to challenge us.”

Richard Woodville was curious. “Why now? What has prompted you to this?”

Warwick was glad he asked because he wanted to know too.

“That’s none of your concern,” she snapped, silencing more questions. “Now we had best go our separate ways. I don’t want us to be found together. But the moment something happens, you’re to send someone to me, is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Warwick watched as they went out, leaving the door open behind them. And leaving him without an answer to the identity of their intended victim. He was confounded. Something fatal was about to be perpetrated, and he didn’t know what. Which of them should he follow?

“What to do, eh, Tobias?” he murmured, and the hound responded by tugging him toward the door and then in the wake of Richard Woodville. Tobias was a sighthound, but right now he was on the scent.

Deeper into the privy apartments they went, and Warwick knew they were approaching the royal bedchamber, where he found guards, courtiers, physicians and doctors in the anteroom outside, with a sprinkling of apothecaries. To one side there were priests and monks, and as Warwick watched, some nuns fluttered in like a flock of white-headed black crows.

He and Tobias were again able to enter without being noticed. As in the first hall he’d passed through, the atmosphere here was heavy and solemn, and all faces were worried. Clearly they all had something much more momentous on their minds than Eastertide or even the Earl of Warwick.

Richard Woodville was with two of the physicians, only one of whom seemed even vaguely optimistic. Warwick heard the man. “If His Grace survives until dawn and the sunlight of Easter Day without mishap, then I am certain he will endure and recover.”

One of the other physicians sniffed disparagingly. “False hope. I fear the crisis is imminent. His heart is uneven. He really should not be left alone, but is most insistent, and when I tried to reason with him he became very angry. I feared to over-stimulate him and so obeyed his command.” He shook his head heavily. “The coming crisis will see an end to him, you mark my words. Have they sent for his confessor?”

“Yes.” The first physician thought. “Word ought to be sent to Gloucester without delay.”

Richard Woodville interjected swiftly. “Indeed not! That will surely be to tempt ill providence.” Then he crossed himself devoutly. “For the king’s health, I mean.”

The door of the bedchamber opened and a physician’s apprentice emerged with an empty tray. Warwick intercepted the fleeting glance he exchanged with Richard Woodville. Needing no further prompt, both earl and sighthound slipped through just as the bedchamber door closed behind the apprentice.

They were in another sumptuous room that was illuminated by a fire, one small wall torch and a single candle beside a great bed. The gilded bed had richly carved posts, and a canopy from which were suspended beautifully tied curtains; sleeping in it was a fat middle-aged man who, as with Richard Woodville at Kicks End, looked vaguely familiar to Warwick. The man’s pallor was almost green, and there were heavy shadows beneath his puffy eyes. His jowls sagged and his straggling light-brown hair was thin and lacklustre, and in the pudgy hands clasped over his chest he held a beautiful rosary made of magnificent turquoises. The heavy golden cross attached to it rested upon the bed’s coverlet.

Puzzled, the earl turned to inspect the table by the bedside. Next to the lighted candle was a lidded jug of red wine and an upturned Venetian glass. Nearby was a little silver cup filled halfway with a noxious green liquid from a phial with a stopper.

Tobias growled at the cup and as Warwick sniffed it his face wrinkled with disgust. Why couldn’t physicians make their vile mixes taste and smell good? This was no welcome draught, and if Tobias disapproved then it certainly would not be sampled. The red wine, however, smelled exceptionally good indeed. Ah yes, an excellent example of the nectar of the vine. He looked enquiringly at Tobias, who promptly wagged his tail. Warwick smiled and poured himself a good measure, but when he sipped it nothing happened. He sipped again but couldn’t taste or swallow anything! Perplexed, he inspected the glass. It did contain wine, but—just like the apple—sampling it was apparently denied to him. His glance moved down to Tobias again, and the sighthound sighed sympathetically.

Warwick put the glass down and took the candlestick to lean over the bed, the better to investigate the plump occupant. It was only then that he realised who it was. Edward Plantagenet, the Yorkist King of England! The earl’s lips parted. Good God! Was this great lump really Edward? It couldn’t be. Edward was twenty-nine. Twenty-nine for Jesu’s sake, yet looked the same age or more than Warwick himself! And in far worse shape.

The earl stared, so shaken that he almost dropped the candle. His scouts had that very morning reported Edward as looking fit and well, yet here he was, gone to seed in the worst possible way. He didn’t smell too good either.

The earl’s lips pressed together. He’d never seen anyone, no matter how close to the end, with a complexion of that shade of sickly green. He straightened and glanced again at the phial on the table. Certain things began to be explained. Tonight the Woodvilles intended to finish Edward, but in the opinion of Richard Neville, for Edward to look like this the surreptitious assault on his life had been going on for some time. It wasn’t sorcery to which Elizabeth Woodville was resorting now, but the proven reliability of steady poisoning.

Why? Why? Edward was both her creator and salvation. She—and the tribe of Woodvilles—needed him, and yet apparently wanted him dead. And by the look of him, she was being successful!

Edward had always been an almost beautiful giant. Six feet four inches tall, with the perfect body of a great warrior. He dominated everyone, no matter who or where, and drew men to his banners like iron to a magnet. And attracting women into his bed with the ease of moths to a flame. But now the pale brown hair falling from beneath the royal night bonnet no longer the rich, luxuriant golden brown locks of which Edward had always been so proud.

“Well, here’s a strange kiddle of fish, eh, Tobias?” Warwick murmured. He was bewildered, having expected to find Henry VI, whose demise would indeed be to the House of York’s—and the Woodvilles’—advantage. Or would it? Henry’s so-called son, the Prince of Wales, was a young man and strong. He’d surely present a more viable and effective Lancastrian alternative to his dithering father. Hellfire, that was exactly what he, Warwick, had considered when as the price of his considerable contribution to the Lancastrian cause, he’d insisted on his younger daughter, Anne, being married to the prince. Warwick’s scheme was to ensure a Neville became Queen of England!

Edward suddenly awoke with a start, and his dull blue eyes stared up at face looming over  him, so ghastly and frightening in the wavering candlelight.

“Hello, Ned,” Warwick greeted coolly.

“You? You can’t be here!” Edward cried, in his terror finding strength from somewhere to scramble from the other side of the bed. His costly rosary was torn and the turquoises scattered over the floor. The gold cross winked and flashed in the firelight.

Warwick expected Edward’s shout to bring the physicians swarming in, but nothing happened.

Clearly feeling vulnerable in his silk nightshirt, Edward grabbed a coverlet to wrap around himself, as if it were a cloak of invisibility. He was breathing heavily because the mere act of inhaling was an effort, let alone erupting from his deathbed as if Satan had prodded him with a pitchfork!

The man was surely one of the walking dead, Warwick thought, crossing himself, but there was at least the consolation of knowing Edward Plantagenet could see him. Oh, he’d hate to be invisible to this of all men. And yet….being face to face with the bane of his life felt oddly anti-climactic.

Edward’s gazed fixed on the earl’s chin. “The beard—”

“I’ve vowed that it will go when you breathe your last, Ned.” Warwick advanced around the bed, holding the candlestick higher, the better to banish the shadows over his prey’s face.

Edward looked sick.

Warwick smiled thinly. “Oh, I have many bones to pick with you, Ned!”

Edward backed away. “Sweet saints, sweet saints,” he breathed, casting around for something with which to defend himself.

“It’s time to pick over those bones, Ned. You made a great fool of me, and that is something I cannot forget. Or forgive. Soon we will confront each other in battle, but I see no reason for many good men to die when the quarrel is just between you and me.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I will settle for one life. Yours.”

Edward’s face was still like wax as his brows drew together in confusion. “You…you said we will confront each other soon?”

“So?”

“How? We’ve already confronted each other, Warwick. At Barnet. On Easter Sunday 1471.”

Tobias growled and Warwick took a moment to recover his wits. “What manner of clod do you take me for?”

“It’s the truth.” Edward studied him curiously. “Don’t tell me you still think you can put Henry VI on the throne. His restoration was simply for your own prideful ends. You didn’t really believe he should have the crown. You only became a Lancastrian to spite me! And anyway, Henry is beyond helping now, long since dead and buried. I saw to that little detail in 1471. In fact I rid myself of a number of tiresome Lancastrian inconveniences that year, you included, and I’ve reigned securely ever since.” The remnants of his once great fortitude were carrying him now.

Warwick thought the other had taken leave of his senses. Was this what happened when one was dying? One believed one’s own lies? “Oh, poor Ned, how you must wish your fibs were true,” he breathed, trying to maintain his outward calm. But something was cutting through him. He already knew there was time missing, and that knowledge was beginning to hint at something so frightening that he feared to acknowledge it.

“You choose not to believe me when I say you and I have already confronted each other. Think on this. Like tonight, there was fog that night and into Easter Sunday morning, and there was a strangely misplaced rainless thunderstorm with peculiar blue lightning. Because of the fog we could barely see our hands in front of our faces, let alone each other’s army.”

Warwick could see it all again….

Edward continued. “And because of the fog your men mistook Oxford’s star with rays for my sun in splendour. Your men thought they attacked me, but had instead turned on their own side. Your men panicked, and in the ensuing rout you and your brother were killed. I wanted you both alive, truly I did.”

Please no, not John…. Warwick closed his eyes for a moment, but then disbelieved again. “My days of being taken in by fairy tales are long over, Ned. That battle isn’t until the coming morning, but you and I can settle it now, in single combat.”

Edward glanced around the sumptuous bedchamber. “Sweet Jesu, is this my pavilion before the battle? And look at me, man. Do you see someone of twenty-nine? Am I strong enough to don armour and wield a weapon? Today isn’t 13 April 1471, it’s 8 April 1483, Easter has been and gone, and you, Richard Neville, have been dead and buried these twelve years. In which long, settled period I’ve been at liberty to indulge in every vice. Which is why I am as you see me now.”

Warwick stared at him. “I cannot believe you,” he whispered. “I won’t believe you!” And yet, and yet….

Seeing his hesitation, Edward continued. “You’re transparent, man. I can see right through you to the wall.” He pointed to a looking glass on the chimney breast. “What do you see, mm? You see me, and I’m solid enough, but you are hazy and indistinct. And so is your wraith of a sighthound.”

Warwick stared at the looking glass. It was true! He and Tobias weren’t substantial, but more like some of the finer stained windows in a church! It was what he’d only just begun to fear deep inside and to which he dared not give credence. Was it his punishment for failing to attend the Easter Vigil?

Edward looked at him. “Why do you think you’ve come here tonight?”

“I don’t know. I was inspecting my defences on the common when suddenly I heard…well, strange sounds that I now know were of the Thames here at Westminster. Then I heard Great Tom ring that it was midnight and Easter Sunday. I was alarmed to be late for the vigil, but before I knew it I’d just disembarked from my own barge and was here in the palace. I’ve walked all through to these privy apartments and no one seems to have recognised me, or even seen me, except a cat and a foolish maid. Only Tobias knew me. And now you, Ned Plantagenet.”

Edward’s response echoed Warwick’s thoughts. “And it hasn’t occurred to you to wonder why?”

“It has occurred now,” the earl responded. He and Tobias were dead. What else could explain it all?

“You’d better have some wine, old fellow.” Edward was almost smug to have shaken his old foe—spirit or not—to such an extent.

Warwick strove to regain his equilibrium. Such a moment called for the production of some shocking facts of his own. Something to really wipe that Plantagenet swagger from Ned’s face. He’d seen how longingly the invalid lump looked at the wine on the table. No doubt such comforts were strictly forbidden by his physicians.

He placed the candlestick next to the glass he’d poured for himself, so the wine was lit temptingly. “Enjoy some by all means,” he said amiably, “but do make sure not to test the green potion. It contains poison. Courtesy of your wife and her sweet little brother Richard Woodville. It’s my guess they’ve been doing it for some time now.”

Edward gaped at him. “Poison?”

“Yes.” Ah, goodbye smugness. “I heard them plotting. Richard Woodville is outside that door right now, moving among all your faithful physicians and medical genii. I saw him exchange a very meaningful glance with the physician’s assistant who brought the potion in to you. So I imagine tonight’s little potion is much stronger than the others you’ve been dosed with recently. To finally put an end to you. I have to wonder about the loyalty of your physicians. If I could see that you’ve been slowly poisoned, how could they not? Maybe they all want to be rid of you? So much for Woodville gratitude, eh? You conjured that icy Medusa from nothing and nowhere, and ruined England by foisting all her damned Woodvilles on the nobility. Now she turns upon you. What happened? Has sweet Elizabeth lost her allure?”

Edward glanced away, his superiority a thing of the past. “Yes. Long since.”

“You should have married my French princess. Everything in Eden would still be blooming if only you’d kept your codpiece tightly laced when you saw La Woodville. What did she do? What spells did she cast?”

Edward looked sick. “I don’t know, he said quietly, “but I don’t doubt that she used evil means.”

Warwick chuckled. “I could almost feel sorry for you.” Then he was curious. “Does she know you no longer desire her?”

Edward met his eyes for a moment and then looked away.

Warwick was incredulous. “You’ve told her? What a bloody fool! You’ve signed your own death warrant!”

At that a tiny smile touched Edward’s ashen lips. “What she doesn’t know is that our marriage is false. I was already married. It doesn’t matter to whom, for the lady is dead now, God rest her sweet soul. Well, you may be sure that none of my Woodville children will ascend the throne. I’ve left a letter that explains it all and have lodged it with Robert Stillington. He’s to tell Richard everything.”

“The bishop? But surely he’s George’s man.”

“You speak of the late Duke of Clarence?”

“George is dead?”

“Oh, yes, and your daughter Isabel. She didn’t recover from her last child’s birth.” Edward responded.

Oh, Isabel. The earl closed his eyes again, for he loved his daughters. But…last child? So there were children after all. As far as he’d known until now Isabel had lost a little girl in a storm at sea. “And Anne?”

“Oh, she’s well enough, believe me.”

Warwick’s thoughts moved to his dearest Nan. Pray God she was still alive and well. But fear of the possible answer locked his tongue.

Edward continued. “And I wrote the letter for Stillington after George’s demise. If anyone benefits from my death it will be Richard of Gloucester. George changed sides once too often and became a real thorn in my side. He had to go.”

“You…you murdered your own brother?” Warwick was shocked to the core.

“It was a necessary evil.”

As the earl struggled for composure something totally at odds with the conversation struck him. “What’s so important about Ludlow?”

“I have installed my elder son there with his own household. Another so-called Prince of Wales, I fear.”

Warwick had to look away at the callous indifference with which Edward spoke of his own son.

Edward saw and was pricked. “You think he’s my son? Well, maybe I was responsible for his conception, which is why his mother wants to sink her claws into him at the earliest possible opportunity, but as far as I’m concerned he’s a damned Woodville through and through. He even looks like one! And when he opens his mouth, all I hear is Woodville.”

“And whose fault is that?” Warwick responded cuttingly, shoving his knuckles on his hips in that imposing way that had always raised him above others. Now it belittled Edward Plantagenet. “Sweet Lord above, Ned, is there nothing too base for you? Fratricide, regicide, disinheriting your own children….” He was having difficulty coping with the deluge of bleak facts, and tried to collect himself. “Well, at least I understand why your queen and her brother were intent only upon where Richard of Gloucester was. George is no longer of any consequence.”

“He brought it on himself. Treason cannot be allowed to pass unpunished.”

“I can be thankful I was killed in battle,” Warwick muttered, then looked at him again. “The Woodvilles are on the point of doing away with you and then they’ll attend to Richard. So much for the glorious sons of York.”

Edward smoothed a shaking hand over his left arm as a pain struck through it. “But Stillington will produce my letter should there be anything untoward about my demise, and in it I’ve named Richard as my successor. And your daughter Anne will be his queen. Take heart, my friend, for their son—your grandson—will be king in due course.”

Warwick’s jaw dropped. Anne and Richard of Gloucester were married? A grandchild?

Edward shuffled a step forward in his coverlet cocoon but winced a little and Warwick saw the movement of his hand up and down his left arm.

“Warwick, when I said I rid myself of inconvenient Lancastrians in 1471, the baseborn Prince of Wales was one of them. He was as illegitimate as my own offspring. Henry certainly didn’t sire him, no matter what Margaret of Anjou kept insisting. Now it is of no consequence. Anne bore no children of that brief marriage, but through my brother Richard she’ll be queen anyway, just as you planned. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

It was all too much, and Warwick plumped down on the edge of the empty bed. Henry and his son were dead? His brother John was dead? George was dead? Isabel was dead? Anne was now married to Richard of Gloucester? A new thought occurred. “But, George’s children are a senior line to Richard’s, and attainders can be reversed.”

“You think Richard will attend to that?” Edward’s eyes were crafty slits. “He’ll have his own son’s destiny to consider. I saw to the attainder, why should he disinherit his own child by changing it?”

“By God, and I thought Lancastrians were bad enough,” Warwick observed sadly. “England would be better off without the lot of you.”

“Better off without your grandchildren? Come on now, Warwick, you haven’t thought twice about seeing one of your daughters on the throne. It wouldn’t matter to you which one or which House, so don’t look at me in that holier-than-thou way. You’re no better than me.”

Silence fell, in which Warwick heard Edward’s heavy breathing, but he took no notice because his thoughts had turned to Nan again. He was still afraid to enquire, but he had to know. “And…Nan?” he asked faintly, hardly daring to hear the answer.

Still rubbing his arm, Edward shrugged. “She.s well enough, and lives with Richard and Anne at Middleham. Richard and George had a most unbecoming quarrel over her inheritance, and in the end Richard gave up a large part of his claim because he wanted so much to marry Anne. They love each other in a way that I can only envy. Richard has long been my right hand in the north, a loyal and capable brother. I appreciate him very much. Middleham is his favourite lair.”

Then Edward gasped suddenly and Warwick saw that beneath the coverlet he clutched his left arm tightly. “Father in Heaven, save me. Save me….” He didn’t finish, for his knees gave and he thudded heavily to the floor and lay there, still swathed in a heap of bedding.

Warwick started from the bed as if on fire. Sweet God, had Edward IV just expired in front of him?

Tobias padded over to Edward, sniffed him and then looked around and wagged his tail once.

Warwick relaxed. Not dead. Yet. Where were the damned physicians!

Even as he thought it the door opened and the physicians and their entourages swept in. It was time for their hourly consultation. When they found the king lying on the floor there was immediate chaos and consternation, and everyone from the anteroom squeezed into the room.

There was a clamour of voices, and Warwick and Tobias retreated unseen to the heavy golden brocade curtains drawn across the nearest tall casement window. They watched as Edward was lifted carefully back on to the bed and closely examined. Superstitious precautions were taken, and all knots in the room were untied to allow his soul’s easy passage to the afterlife. Priests intoned, and Edward’s confessor leaned close over him for any hint of a confession. It had soon been decided that the anticipated heart seizure was fatal. His Grace King Edward IV of England had only an hour or so left.

Among those who’d entered the chamber was Richard Woodville and he took advantage of the confusion to go to the table and the green potion. He expected to find the silver cup empty, but it was clearly untouched. His face changed and thinking himself unobserved, he tossed the liquid into the fire, where the hissing, sizzling and steam went unremarked in the general hubbub. Then he concealed the little phial in his purse.

Only Warwick and Tobias saw as all trace of the Woodville poison was expunged.

The sound of female distress carried as Elizabeth Woodville ran into the room in a flurry of velvet and silk. Followed by her fluttering, weeping ladies, she pushed through the crowd, flung herself onto the bed and cradled Edward’s head close. “Oh, my beloved!” she sobbed. “Oh, my dearest darling husband and lord….” Her ladies wailed with her.

Warwick heard Tobias’s disgusted snort and watched as the sighthound threaded his way to the woman who feigned hysteria so convincingly, cocked his leg and showered her rich azure and gold hems. Invisibly to everyone, of course, but not to Warwick, whose humour it so tickled that he gave a roar of laughter. Tobias wagged his tail busily.

As dawn light began to gleam across the eastern sky, Warwick and Tobias were still in Edward’s bedchamber, where physicians, doctors, assistants, priests, monks, nuns and Heaven alone knew who else still fussed and fidgeted around the comatose king.

The earl watched the scene and regretted having prompted the heart attack, for there was no doubt that it was his ghostly appearance that had caused the event. Now the bitterness and rage of all those years no longer seemed important. But one thing did gall him. “Tobias, the Woodvilles intended this to happen at their hands, and it grieves me to think that I, Warwick, did their murderous work for them!”

After dwelling a moment on this gross injustice, he glanced down at the sighthound. “Well, now what? We’re ghosts with nothing to do….except perhaps go to Middleham to tell my newly discovered and only remaining son-in-law what’s been going on here. It’s a long way, so we’d better make a start, eh?”

He rose to his feet, and Tobias stretched and yawned reluctantly. It was warm and cosy inside and going anywhere held no appeal for him. The advantage of being a ghost was that he could choose where he was. Well, that was until his old master happened along tonight.

Suddenly a strong draught pulled through the room, and the window curtains billowed around the spirits as one of the casements was blown open. The flames in the hearth flared and numerous glowing sparks flew up the chimney toward the foggy night, but no one else seemed aware of anything.

Warwick held the curtain aside and leaned out to close the window again, but as he reached for the casement handle he felt the icy touch of snow on his face. He stared out, for he wasn’t looking at Westminster, but at a bleak night-time moorland that was white with late spring snow. Night-time or not, he recognised it. He was looking at the moor close to Middleham Castle.

Tobias came to look out too and stiffened in horror. Snow? He shrank back.

 “Come on, Tobias, it seems there are things we ghosts can do that are much more tedious for the living. Instant travel from one place to another appearing to be one.” Warwick stepped through and his gleaming boots sank silently into the snow, which had become a driving blizzard that closed most of the scene. The earl was indifferent to the stinging cold, which didn’t seem to touch him at all now.

The sighthound hung back in the warmth. Go out in that?

Warwick surveyed him. “Come on, you great pansy!” He reached for the hound’s collar and pulled him out.

Tobias whined and made much of shivering.

Warwick smiled. “Take heart, my friend, we’ll soon be there. And you won’t feel the cold now you’re out here. Trust me.” He paused as belated tears suddenly filled his eyes. “I’m about to see my dear wife again, and my remaining daughter. And my Yorkist grandson.”

Unconvinced about not feeling the cold, Tobias glanced back, wondering if he could somehow return to the warm bedchamber. But in every direction there was only moor. The Palace of Westminster, the Thames and London itself had disappeared.

The earl drew a long breath. “I pray God we find a contented household. Mind you, I suppose there won’t be much contentment when we tell them what’s afoot in Westminster.” He drew himself up. “One thing’s certain, we’ll soon know if any of them can see and hear spirits, eh?”

Together they trudged toward Middleham Castle. They left no prints behind and Tobias continued to grumble as they both faded from view in the whirling sheets of snow.

King Edward IV passed away in the midmorning of 9 April, 1483. Thanks to the revelations of Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, the Woodvilles’ plot to be rid of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was foiled. Both Richard and Stillington knew the letter was genuine because of its royal author. Edward’s marriage was declared invalid and his children illegitimate. He had his revenge on his murderous queen.

On 6 July 1483 Richard was crowned King Richard III at Westminster Abbey, with all the consequences with which we Ricardians are so sadly familiar.

PS: Please remember that this story is fiction!